


Will Kiss for Cash

by roasthoney



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Gay Chicken, M/M, Rutting, Unresolved Sexual Tension, the lilo is minimal but it is there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:38:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/roasthoney/pseuds/roasthoney
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The boys decide to play gay chicken. Harry and Zayn, as always, take it a step too far.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Will Kiss for Cash

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Vicepresidents](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vicepresidents/gifts).



> Written for El and inspired by [this post](http://vicepresidents.tumblr.com/post/57944805369) about the boys playing gay chicken. It was supposed to be a short drabble but it morphed into this monster.The original title was Jar of Hearts. Enjoy!

It begins with Louis, but when hasn't it? He has _that_ grin on his face, the mischievous one with a plan, and Zayn feels a hint of dread even though Louis looks disarmingly harmless with bits of chip still left in his moustache. He nicked Zayn's sharpie from him even though he was in the middle of sketching a picture of Niall because he saw his picture of Harry and asked if he could have one. After a few minutes of Louis humming loudly in thought, sending not so discreet glances at Harry and Liam until they notice, he scribbles on the can and slams it onto the table in front of him.

"Gay chicken?" Harry's the first to ask with a curiosity that differs greatly from how Zayn has the strongest urge to take the can and toss it out of the window. He has a bad feeling about this; he doesn't know why, but he just _does_.

"Yes Harold, gay chicken," Louis puffs up in a faux haughty tone but his childish grin gives him away, "That's what we're going to play."

Zayn notes that it isn't a question, but a fact. And when Harry's face lights up in excitement he knows it's too late; if both Harry and Louis want it there's no stopping them like all of the silly games and food fights they've had before. They're like a hurricane, sweeping them all up and tearing up everything in their path; Liam looks a bit like how Zayn does, uncertain but resigned to his fate.

Louis has to walk Liam through how the game works, taking a special kind of glee in explaining the things they can do to each other, but he pauses when Liam seems confused as to what the point of the game is. 

"It's to see who gives in first," Harry interjects to explain but he isn't looking at them; he's looking at Zayn and interest starts to replace the sinking feeling Zayn had in the pit of his stomach. 

Everyone knows Harry Styles smiles _a lot_. But only a few know the different kinds of smiles he has, ranging from the dimpled cheery one he always flashes to the cameras and the fans to the devious one he gets when he's about to smash a banana in someone's face. And there's one that Zayn isn't sure how to define, how to catalogue in his big mental book of intriguing things Harry does, because it makes his mind go a bit blank. Like how the old television in his house used to flicker static, on and off, on nights filled with thunderstorms that flooded the basement. 

"I'm in." And Zayn snatches the sharpie back from Louis who doesn't even notice because he's too busy convincing Liam, the one with red tipped ears, to play too. All he wants to do is finish his drawing of Niall (who also joined with a good natured, somewhat colorful, agreement); he does _not_ tune them out because his stomach is tossing around again, no. 

It's just fascinating, the shape of Niall's nose. When Zayn hears Harry join in with Louis to push Liam into playing he lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding and tries to keep the marker steady on the thin scrap of paper, cursing quietly when he screws up the shape of Niall's jaw. 

"Having problems?" Harry's hand is warm on his thigh, too high up near his groin to be friendly, and he practically kisses Zayn's ear when he leans in to whisper the question in a purposely husky way. Zayn doesn't even have time to respond because Louis is shouting about how it isn't fair that Harry's already got a start on them, and then going on about some point system Zayn honestly doesn't give a shit about because Harry's fingers are starting to wander up as if he's playing the piano on his thigh. 

"No." Zayn shrugs his hand off with an indifference that he's way too proud of and Harry doesn't even seem fazed by it. He only grins, the cheeky kind with stars in his eyes, and backs off to figure out how much should go into the jar with Louis. 

It turns out to be five pounds but Zayn doesn't have any cash on him so he throws whatever's in his pockets into the can; they start off with a marker cap, candy wrapper, and a cherry lollipop and Zayn can't even nap the rest of the afternoon away because all he can hear in his head is Katy Perry singing, on and on, about kisses that taste like cherry chapstick.

\---

The can is starting to get heavy with crumpled up bills and pocket change because Louis is hell bent on winning and Harry's trying his best to match him blow by blow. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on the mood Zayn's in, he chooses Zayn as his target so their twitter feed doesn't blow up with fans screaming about him and Louis.

Zayn likes his own approach the most; slow, but steady, like the tortoise in those children's stories his mother always read to him before he fell asleep with the covers tucked under his sides. There's a special kind of satisfaction in how the coins sound when Harry tosses them into the aluminum bottomed can with a face that promises the best kind of revenge. Zayn can't look at the can, conveniently sitting in Zayn's table area because he had the space and the boys were too lazy to rotate it each week, without thinking about what he scored this week.

Smacking Harry's ass earned the jar a grand total of ten pounds; poking it with the bottom of his microphone earned him twenty pounds along with a teary eyed, overdramatic, speech from Louis about how proud of he was of him. 

Niall's the first one to give up after a valiant week and a half of effort, but it's more like he forgets about the game and the points. Zayn hugs him and pokes at his nipples anyways because he started that way before they began their game but it doesn't leave his skin tingling like how Harry's too long, too intimate, touches do.

Harry's leading the way two weeks in because he licks, actually _licks_ , Zayn's ear in the middle of a concert and Zayn coughs up thirty pounds and a chocolate bar he was saving for later; Harry makes a comment about how much he loves cookies and cream and Zayn refuses to acknowledge the way his mind jumps to other kinds of bodily fluids from how Harry licks his lips right after with a strange look in his eye.

Sometimes Zayn wishes he paid much more attention to what Louis and Liam were doing because by the time Liam drops out, saying something about questionable intentions and nighttime gropes, the jar is stuffed up to the brim. They all know the money is spare change to them, it's barely enough to go on vacation for a few days, but Zayn can taste victory in the sugar sweet icing he licks off of Harry's cheek.

\---

It's been a month and Zayn forgets how the point system works because Louis has set his mind on some other plot, most likely one involving Liam and ways to get him embarrassed, and Harry even forgets to drop money in the jar half the time. Now he's moved on to stuffing in odd trinkets from their hotels like a triple A battery from the remote of a room with a huge television they spent all night watching because a horror movie marathon was on. Or the bandana that Zayn gave to him after a fan threw it on stage, which actually makes Zayn's want to win more because the ragged cloth means more than a few pounds ever could.

No one's surprised at how Zayn refuses to surrender, he's had a competitive streak for a while, but Louis gets a suspicious look on his face when Harry mentions it offhand well after they've started their next nefarious plot. The topic changes effortlessly, Harry babbling on about cotton candy and carnival trips, but Zayn has to pretend to be immensely interested in the wallpaper to avoid the way Louis is trying to burn holes in Zayn's head with his gaze alone.

Harry's the one that moves on to the next topic at a neck breaking pace. Harry's the one that falls in and out of love, for anything, the fastest as if he can't get enough of the rush. One night he's completely smitten with Rene (with the accent, he insisted with a bright red mark left on his cheek from lipstick), and the next he thinks Veronica is just the loveliest with her dreams about becoming an pediatrician and starting up a charity organization for disabled children. 

But when Zayn's starting to think Harry's forgotten about the game he surprises him with another pat on his bum or by leaning in too close, fans screaming, as he tells him something inconsequential yet noticed - thus, perfectly Harry. 

Tonight it's just them, him and Harry, partying out because Liam said he felt ill and Louis volunteered to help him feel better, while Niall's still recovering from his hangover. He swears he blacked out and Zayn spares him the pain of splitting headaches by forbidding anyone from going into his room to make any sort of noise. 

It should be the same as any other night. But there's something different in the air, something about the way Harry looks at him with an intensity that catches Zayn off guard. Even Zayn's quip about how a photograph will last him longer doesn't tone it down - only makes Harry smile and Zayn has to take a drink from his cup before everyone sees him grinning like an idiot. 

"And he said, really said-" 

Harry's story is cut off by a bout of fresh laughter, spilling out of his mouth like bubbles, boundless and filled with infinite amusement at his own story. At this point, Zayn is so pissed he doesn't even try to keep up with Harry's anecdotes about the people, usually strangers, he's met. Zayn's laughing too, nose scrunched up in the way that makes Harry even more energetic, but only because Harry has the most infectious laugh Zayn's ever heard. 

It makes Zayn double over when they finally stumble into a taxi that Paul calls for them, tears welling in the corners of his eyes because he can't breathe and needs Harry to support him lest he fall against the door and end up on the street. 

When it finally dies down, simmers in Zayn's chest like a volcano ready to erupt again any second, Zayn realizes how close they are with their limbs all tangled up and mouths inches away from each other. Harry seems to realize the same time Zayn does, the pale green of his eyes still visible in a ring around his blown pupils, and suddenly the situation doesn't feel quite as funny as it was seconds ago. 

Zayn's eyes flicker down to Harry's lips, pink and impossibly plush, and all he can hear is his heartbeat pounding loud in his head and Katy Perry singing her heart out again. He just wants to know what he tastes like - that's all, really, and it's a good enough excuse to keep him from pulling away and breaking the tension with another terrible, drunken, comment about anything other than this. 

"Zayn, I want-" And that's enough to ignite the air between them, Harry's voice so low and rough with that drawl he has, because suddenly there are hands and lips and teeth _everywhere_. Zayn kisses him with a desperation he didn't know he had in him, teeth clashing and mouth bruising from how clumsy they are, and he can't seem to get enough of Harry under his hands as if he needs more curls tight in his grip to pull at. He gasps from the slick heat of it and Zayn doesn't need to open his eyes to see the wicked smile pulling the corners of Harry's mouth up because he can feel it against his mouth, in his bones. 

It makes Zayn feel dizzy, overwhelmed, when Harry's tongue curls around his because it's never been like _this_ , fast and rough in a way that makes Zayn's pulse skyrocket and leaves his mouth buzzing when they part to breathe with their lips still barely touching. 

The air is tense but in a different way this time - filled with unsaid emotions and questions pushed aside but still there, poking at Zayn's mind like a wrongly positioned feather in his hotel bed pillow, and Harry bangs the top of his head against the ceiling of the taxi when the driver speaks and snaps them out of their reveries. The rest of their time is a blur of bodyguards assisting them to their rooms, Harry reverting between rubbing at the bump on his head and staring at Zayn because the last thing Zayn managed to mumble before they were pulled away was -

"S' only gay chicken."

\---

Zayn feels like he's fourteen again. Hormonal and awkwardly crammed into a body he has to learn all over again because he has moments where he reacts differently than he should as if the wires have been switched up. Harry's smile shouldn't leave him feeling breathless and winded with desire to touch, desire to kiss, as if someone's socked him in the stomach and spelled blue balls on him.

He lasts for a few days of pure torture in the form of Harry coming close to whisper, Harry falling on his knees and _letting_ him thrust in his face as if there's no crowd around them, Harry licking and touching his lips every god damn second and Zayn's starting to think Harry's oral fixation is rubbing off on him - 

And _rubbing_ is the wrong word for Zayn to think of because he's starting to set a record for how many times he can sneak away and jerk off in a day. It's always fast, rough, and painfully unfulfilling because all Zayn can think about is being tangled up in a taxi with Harry and his surprisingly soft lips. The thought of kissing hasn't gotten him off for years, not since he discovered bigger and better things, but it's always the image that sends him over the edge with his heart pounding a mile a minute.  
But Zayn has his limits and reaches them when he catches Harry with that look in his eyes for the nth time, tongue dragging over his own lips in a lewd fashion that should be on the list of things Harry Styles is not allowed to do, and it's all a blur when he shoves him into a closet when there's finally no one around. 

Harry looks surprised and Zayn wants to shout, to _scream_ , that it was so bloody obvious Harry should have seen it coming from miles away, but instead he kisses away the frustration with his mouth hot against his. A shelf is digging into his side and Zayn's sure he's going to have a bruise on his forearm from knocking it on what might have been a paint can but the pain is nothing compared to the bliss of Harry's mouth opening under his, obscene little noises being coaxed out of him the longer they go on, along with Harry's hands running up his back still damp with sweat. 

Their hips slot together like puzzle pieces, made to fit, and Zayn fumbles when he tries to unbutton Harry's too tight skinny jeans because his head is swimming and Harry's licked his way down his cheekbones and jaw so he can nibble and kiss Zayn's neck. Zayn would tell him to stop, just for a second, so he can pull Harry's pants down and make it even better than it already is, but he knows Harry wouldn't listen because he's _Harry_ and the thought of that blessed mouth leaving his skin is simply wrong. 

The next thing he knows Harry's bare skin is finally flush against his, length pressed against his, and Zayn's rutting against him in an abandoned storage closet with one hand pressed against the door to keep it closed and the other against the shelf above Harry's head because he feels like he's about to fall, down and down until he forgets which way's up. Harry's all long limbs and hips that keep arching up to meet Zayn's; he's the lips that Zayn knows the shape of by heart now, the lips that he can imagine the exact shade of even in the dark. 

Zayn's cursing, all fucks and shites, and he's making a racket by shoving random items off of the shelves when he loses his grip, but he can't stop when the friction feels good enough to burn him alive. He loses it when Harry throws his arms around his neck, the only warning Zayn gets, before hopping up with his legs hooked around Zayn with a wild look in his eyes. And Zayn is gone, a strangled groan wrenched out of his throat, wildly thrusting forward in the final seconds so hard the shelf gives out with what sounds like a thunderous crash. 

"Zayn don't you - don't, fucking dare-" Harry's babbling with his nails digging into Zayn's back, pulling him out of the white noise, but he shuts up when Zayn makes a tight fist around his cock and strokes Harry hard until he's seeing stars and coming in hot streaks onto his hand.

There's something ridiculous about the way they're tangled together again, except this time they're on the floor of a closet way too small to fit both of them, with their pants halfway down their legs and various bottles and boxes scattered around them. Instead of worrying about the noise they made and his phone that's still buzzing in his jean pocket, Zayn tries to memorize the way Harry looks disheveled with his lips red and patches of skin flushed from exertion and his touch.

Not anyone else's, but _his_.

Zayn feels his stomach flip and it can't be from desire, or lust, this time because he's still basking in the afterglow. It can't be anything else, it can't - 

He hopes it isn't.

\---

They don't mention the game ever again but they know they're still playing when they take every free moment they have to kiss and touch. Sometimes it's rushed and just enough to set Zayn's nerves afire, a quick kiss with teeth and tongue before they run out of the corner they found to join the rest of the boys, and sometimes it's slow and languid as if they have all the time in the world. Zayn can't decide which one he likes more because each one fuels his addiction, his obsession with the curve and taste of Harry's lips, and he thinks he can work with the arrangement they have now.

There are no questions hanging in the air between them. No why, or if, or but, only _yes_ and _more_. 

The night when Harry slaps his ass on stage again Zayn gets back at him by squeezing Harry's tight later on when they're alone, hard enough to leave bright red marks as if he's spanked him raw and the thought leaves Zayn's mouth a bit dry. Zayn twists Harry's nipples once and that night he finds out just how sensitive Harry's extra ones are, and how he can come with his cock untouched if Zayn bites them just hard enough to hurt. When Harry frowns at Zayn, grabs his arm and pulls him closer, after Zayn talks to Louis before him he lets Harry push him down onto the bed and leave marks -

_"Under the collar Haz, I'm not wearing turtlenecks on stage-,"_

\- that Zayn runs his hands over later. They're enough to keep him from following his urge to kiss Harry on stage, screw everyone else, because he looked so stunning in that moment with the light shining on him and the fans screaming for him to look at them. Zayn's never cared much about attention, not like Harry does, but it's satisfying to know that he's seen sides of Harry none of them will ever get a chance to. 

Like the catalogue of smiles Zayn sees from Harry he starts up a new one. The face he makes, mouth slack, when Zayn twists his wrist in a certain way; the way his hips twitch once, twice, after coming so hard his bones feel like jelly; the needy sounds Harry makes that time when Zayn wouldn't let him come until he was writhing, squirming, for it; the way Harry's skin goes cherry red so easily; the pure bliss on his face after they're both done and still sticky from release; the post coital softness in his blindingly green eyes; him, Harry, watching Zayn as he falls apart from his unforgiving touch.

The day Harry dons the candy thong Zayn has to be careful to keep himself in check. It's too damn tempting to resist and he bites from it, stopping the urge to nuzzle his face against Harry's crotch because he knows Harry would love it, catching the way Harry's green eyes widen and cheeks color. Zayn can only imagine how he looks, downcast with his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks, but he _knows_ what Harry will want. 

Zayn spends the rest of the concert thinking about all the places he could blow Harry - so far his favorite is outside of the tour buses in the empty parking lot with only the night as their judge, but Harry drags him to the bathroom before Zayn can even suggest anything. The chatter of people passing by in the hall makes Zayn's heart pound even harder because Harry doesn't even try to be quiet when he yanks his belt off and half jumps around to get his skinny jeans off. 

"Eager, babe?" 

Harry wipes the smirk off of Zayn's face with a particularly vicious kiss that leaves Zayn's lips throbbing but it works to his advantage when he finally gets on his knees, the rips in his jeans leaving his knees directly pressed against the floor, and pulls Harry's underwear down until his length is exposed and already half hard from anticipation alone.

Zayn starts off slow even though Harry's urging him on with one hand in his hair, mussing up his quiff and tugging at his scalp, because he wants to savor the way Harry's body seems to melt under him. But Zayn needs more too, judging from the hand he shoves down his own pants, and soon enough he's sucking Harry off hard and fast without any kind of inhibition left. 

Friends don't usually suck each other off until their lips are red and their mouths taste salty, but the same excuses play through Zayn's head as he swallows everything Harry gives him, his cock halfway down his throat, thumbs pressed into the indents of his trembling hips. It's just an elaborate game of gay chicken and it's normal, nothing strange or new to figure out, and there's nothing complicated about it.

There's nothing complicated about the way Zayn can't go a day anymore without kissing Harry at least once. There's nothing complicated about how he doesn't think about the points, or the money, anymore - only thinks about how _right_ Harry's body feels against his and how it feels as if their bodies were made to fit together. 

There's nothing complicated about how Zayn falls, one kiss at a time, at least until he hits the ground with a resounding crash.

\---

Zayn starts to turn away when Harry moves close. He starts to kiss him less, measure them out like food rations during a famine, and pulls away earlier than usual. It's because of the stupid can, the can filled with candy and loose bills, the can that he nearly tripped over when he found it in the bus and remembered how it's all fun and games.

And it _is_ , yet it isn't, because Zayn finds himself wanting more and more each day. He wants Harry in the morning with his voice thick with sleep; he wants Harry looking thoroughly debauched underneath him with his legs around his waist; he wants Harry laughing from his last stupid joke, the kind of laugh that isn't fake but genuine because Harry can be amused at the silliest things that Zayn does; he wants Harry to forget the game and want him because he does and not because of some odd sense of competitiveness; he _wants_. 

But Zayn knows he can't have it so he inches away, throws his arm around Louis instead of Harry even though Harry's right next to him, and packs his heart up before Harry can pull it out and throw it onto the ground. 

Like all of the other ones Harry broke and collected in his jar of hearts.

\---

Harry kisses other people. Zayn shouldn't be surprised by this, but he is, because his heart leaps up and lodges itself in his throat when he sees Harry with some blonde in the club that night with his hands on her hips that are swaying to the beat. She wraps her arms around his neck and her dark purple lipstick is getting all over Harry's face but he doesn't seem to care, not when she's pressed against him and kissing him in a way Zayn knows can't compare to how they used to.

Harry brings her to his hotel room that night, not him, and Zayn shares a bed with Liam because he needs his soft snores to drown out all the thoughts buzzing around in his head. Like flies, he thinks, spawning out of his control and too loud to ignore.

\---

"What with you and closets?"

Zayn cracks a joke but it falls flat because he hasn't talked to Harry in a week and he's so close now, chests nearly touching, and he can smell the cinnamon from his shampoo. He'd been so careful to avoid being alone with Harry too, always looking for an excuse to stick to Niall or he'd be glued to his phone sending some stupid text he doesn't even remember to anyone on his contact list. Harry only frowned, the one where his eyebrows furrow, with a sense of disappointment that Zayn couldn't handle.

But now Harry's cornered him in a closet, which reminds him of the time before and he has to mentally punch himself before he starts getting hard in a clearly inappropriate way. It's different now, the way Harry's looking at him, and Zayn feels a sense of loss freeze his limbs and keep him from making up a meaningless excuse to leave. 

Harry's mouth opens and millions of possibilities for what Harry could say flies through Zayn's head. He's generating answers and excuses at the same pace, the way he should shrug to give off an indifferent air even though he knows Harry hates it when he does that, how he can change the subject to something harmless and lighthearted like how Harry's boots are falling apart and he really needs to buy a new pair. 

_Why are you acting like this? What's going on? You can forget it happened, you know. We can forget it. Stop acting like this._ Or, if Harry's in a worse mood than Zayn imagined, _you're a prick._

"What did I do?" 

Zayn can't breathe. 

He just _can't_ because Harry looks wounded and confused, like how he did after he messed up his solo and took it all on his own shoulders, and asked the question so quietly - as if he was afraid of the answer.

All of his thoughts fall apart, smashed pieces on the ground like the vase he broke when he was nine, and all he can think is _Harry, Harry, Harry_. Harry spending hours going over what happened to try and figure out what mistake he made; Harry missing him and thinking, wishing, that he could fix it all by himself; Harry holding back the urge to shout at Zayn, yell to the skies, when he first turned away from a kiss; Harry with his jar of hearts and it doesn't even matter anymore because Zayn -

Loves him.

"I give in." 

It takes Harry a few seconds to understand but when he does Zayn has never felt more relieved in his life, as if a weight's been lifted off of his heart and everything is clear now. Not even when they were called back into the competition, not when their single topped the charts and everyone was promising them success.

And Harry kisses him, words resting in the spaces between their lips, filled with the promise of tomorrow and the day after that, meaning so much more than blind lust and stupid games used as excuses to say what they couldn't say before, "I give in too."


End file.
